Yuzierer

On the day he decided to die, a golden rain was falling in the city. That's not rain, it's his burning gene chain, escaping from his pores, like hundreds of millions of fireflies flowing upstream, repairing the cracks in the sky. Every time a halo of light rises into the sky, his outline fades a little. He could hear the bones shattering in the silence, turning into new laws that supported the world. He could once stop time with his bare hands, but now he stretched the last second into eternity. The enemies were still roaring, but their claws penetrated his transparent chest and caught only a handful of starlight. He was laughing, because the baby in the cradle behind him was sucking his fingers and sleeping peacefully—that child would grow up in a world without monsters, learn to read, fall in love with someone, and grow old. These ordinary things that he could never experience have become the brightest diamonds in his crown. There are no monuments, no elegy. When the last ray of light melted into the clouds, the sky healed as before and was as blue as if it had never been injured. People opened their windows and felt that the sunshine was particularly warm today, as if it had been carefully filtered by someone's eyes. He became an unknown cornerstone, buried in the fault lines of history. And every peaceful dusk is his long, wordless epitaph.